


Just What I Want

by lizook12



Category: Arrow (TV 2012)
Genre: Established Relationship, F/M, Future Fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-20
Updated: 2014-03-20
Packaged: 2018-01-16 09:27:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 829
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1342144
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lizook12/pseuds/lizook12
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“I’m fine.”<br/>“You really are.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Just What I Want

**Author's Note:**

> Two fics in as many days? This is what happens when I'm house sitting and have uninterrupted free time. Many, many thanks to **effie214** for letting me basically word vomit this idea at her and putting up with my many texts of "how does this sound?". 
> 
> Title found in Chris Young's _Gettin' You Home (The Black Dress Song)_ , which is where this whole idea started.

Sighing, she snags a glass of champagne from the passing waiter, rubs her hand over the back of her neck.

“Regretting this already?” His arm wraps around her waist, holding her near in the crowd of people.

“No, I just shouldn’t have fallen asleep on the couch last night.”

“This happens when you have a baby that still doesn’t quite sleep through night.” 

“I wonder how your mom’s going to deal with that.” She ducks as a another waiter passes, carrying his tray a little too low, almost clipping her shoulder. She can feel Oliver’s back tighten, his gaze narrowing as he follows the man’s progress, and she lets her free hand settle low on his hip. “I’m fine.” 

“You really are.”

She grins at his slow exhale of breath, the way he subtly guides her through the crowd of Habitat for Humanity (for the Glades) contributors. 

“And back to your point, I’m sure mom will be having so much fun with Amelia that she won’t even care about that pesky four a.m. alarm.”

“Or she’ll have Raisa take care of it.”

“Or that.” 

They start to mingle once more, making small talk with various business associates and people they see regularly at these events. Every so often she feels Oliver tense next to her and she wonders if he’s seeing something in the other person’s demeanor that she’s missing. 

It drags on. 

And on. 

The cocktail hour from hell.

She’d been so excited to get out of the house, just the two of them; it had been months since they’d been able to and it was for a great cause, but now...

These people are the most boring people on the planet and, really, she just wants to get her husband out of his ridiculously attractive suit and under her. 

Putting her now empty glass down, she turns in arms, feels her breath catch at the gleam in his eyes, the tilt of his mouth. 

They’re in the same fucking boat with no life rafts. 

He crowds into her, body pressed insanely close for a public setting, as they weave their way to their assigned seats. His breath is warm on the back of her neck, his hand drifting lower and lower on the open back of her dress, which... 

Is _not_ helping... 

Pressing her lips together, she digs her nails into the palm of her hand before tipping her head towards him. “I think we’re here.”

“I’m not even going to bother checking the card.” He leans close, pulling out her chair. “I trust you.”

God help her, desire arrows through her, heat playing down her spine as he settles in the chair beside her. 

The head of Habitat for Humanity steps up to the podium as the first course arrives and she turns her attention to both—the woman’s words and the amazing food—but his leg keeps pressing hers and, Jesus, if he’d just stop looking at her like he wants to snap the little black straps off her dress she might be able to focus for five minutes. 

“How much longer is this thing supposed to last?” He says it from behind his wine glass, the corner of his mouth turning in a smoldering half smile. 

“Three more courses and a guest speaker.”

She feels more than hears the moan of disappointment and has to smother her laugh, masking it as a cough as the guest speaker takes his place and course two is set in front of them. 

She manages a couple of bites, but it suddenly becomes more interesting to watch him try to keep his mask of composure in place (something he still does well, but she’s learned she can crack with a few well-timed comments) as her hand slips under the table, settling on his thigh. 

Turnabout is fair play, after all. 

Hank is droning on and on and on about funding, the goal of the program, and she turns slightly in her chair so that her body still faces the stage, but her arm has more room to move. 

The shift isn’t lost on him and his fork almost clatters to the table before he grasps it tightly, knuckles flaring white as her hand cups his knee. 

Slowly, she trails her nails over the soft fabric of his pants, higher and higher on his thigh, before flattening her palm against on his leg once more. 

Their eyes meet and she leans close, pressing what she hopes looks like a chaste kiss to his lips, her knuckles brushing across his erection. He groans, hand closing around her wrist, and he begins to push his chair back. 

“Screw it.” Shaking his head, he stands, pulling her with him. “We need to get out of here.” 

“Damn right, make a fucking donation and take me home.” 

(The straps don’t last the entire trip there; the dress hits the floor before he can even finish tossing the keys on the end table.)  


End file.
